- Chapter 28 p {text-indent:2em;margin-top:0;margin-bottom:2px} h1 {page-break-before:left} Back | NextContents Chapter Twenty-eight "How careless of you, Captain, to be riding alone so far from your troops." The voice was soft and gentle. The bonds on his arms and legs were not. Cal Halveric said nothing. "You might have met with some fatal accident, you know. It is fortunate for you that my servants are not quick to kill. We do not entertain guests of your distinguished rank often, Captain." Cal could see nothing through the hood that covered his head but the glint of light between dark threads. Captain they could have guessed from his clothes and his horse; he hoped very much that they did not know which captain. "I hope," the voice went on, sharpening a little, "that you are attending to me—" Something, it could have been a boot or pike-butt, prodded his ribs. When he said nothing, a much harder blow slammed into the same spot. He felt one rib crack, and caught his breath in a gasp of pain. Before he could recover, rough hands dragged him up from the ground and tightened the hood around his neck until he could barely draw a breath. A hand felt over his face, applied pressure to the eyeballs, the angle of his jaw. When he tried to twist away, the cloth around his throat tightened. He tried not to react, but at last breathlessness overcame his control and he choked, fighting the halter and the merciless hands. Instead of release, he got hard blows to the belly. When he was reeling, the tightness eased slightly, and he gasped for breath, unaware of anything else. When he could hear again, the soft voice was speaking. "You see, Captain, I must be sure I have your attention for our very important conference—do I?" When Cal did not answer, the cloth at his throat tightened again, slowly. His throat moved convulsively and he choked. "Was that a 'yes,' Captain?" the voice went on. "You must speak clearly, so that we do not mistake one another." Cal fought back a desire to speak all too clearly to this scum, and thought instead of Seliam, dead in his first command. This time the choking continued until he passed out completely. Someone was calling his name. "Cal—Cal—" the voice went on. A soft voice. He couldn't think who it was. "Cal—wake up." He stirred and took a long breath. Pain stabbed his ribs; his throat was sore—it was dark. He started to reach for his dagger, as always when he woke, and realized that his arms were bound. And his legs. He was flat on his back, and cold. He shifted his head, trying to remember, to think. "Caliam Halveric," the voice mused. "Oldest living son of Aliam Halveric—his second in command—his heir, I understand. Cal, they call you, don't they?" A hand brushed his body and he realized he was naked—then remembered the hood—and what had come before. The hand traced some of his old scars, slowly. He shivered, telling himself it was from the cold. The voice began again, brisker. "Caliam Halveric. What are you worth to your father—" the hand touched his manhood, "—whole? What would he give for you? Anything? Or—would you fetch a better price elsewhere? As a gelding, perhaps. Or perhaps his enemies would pay for you—" the hand touched here and there, "—piecemeal, so to speak. Eh?" Cal smiled grimly under the hood. He knew his worth to his father well enough, and the price someone would pay for his death. "I have sired sons enough," he said, answering that oblique threat. "Ah yes." The voice carried amusement. "You are married, are you not, to—now what is her name?" Cal did not answer. "Five sons and three—no, four—daughters, as I recall. But Cal—what makes you think I have no agents over the mountains. Are five sons enough, if you cannot get more?" He had not thought of that. Surely they were safe, so far away—young Aliam, only fifteen but furious at being left behind, Berrol the stubborn twelve year old, Malek and Kieri and baby Seli, born just a month after his uncle's death. And the girls: tall Tamar, wild as Aliam, and Zuli, and Volya and Amis. Surely they were safe. But his breath came quicker. How did they know this? Were some of his own men traitors? After a long pause, the voice went on. "Your father, Cal—he has made a very unfortunate alliance with that crazy dukeling, Phelan." Cal suppressed a snort. Phelan was as crazy as his nickname of fox. "But perhaps, if he values you, he might be persuaded to—to forget that alliance, at least for awhile." "He will not be likely to forgive your murdering one of his sons because of your threats to another," said Cal calmly. "Murder? You aren't even harmed—yet—barring a rib you might have bruised falling off your horse." "You mean your spy system does not extend to knowing all his captains? How incompetent." "But when did—oh. Was that your brother, last fall? I had been told a hireling captained that troop. Then is that why—?" Cal was silent, willing enough to let him think his brother's death was the only reason for the Halveric-Phelan alliance. That reason might be public knowledge; the rest were secrets he did not care to have probed. The voice went on. "The loss of one son should not harden a man to the loss of others, surely? You must be even more dear to him—or your sons must be. We must convince him, Cal, that his desire for vengeance will condemn you, too. And to no such quick death as your brother. I do wish I'd known who he was. Even so, he would be alive had he released his prisoners to me, as any sensible person would have done. That nonsense you mercenaries spout about honor—ridiculous!" With no warning, scalding liquid splashed Cal's chest. "Oh—" the voice said archly. "How clumsy of me!" Cal was suddenly disgusted by the tone as much as the pain, so angry that it swamped his fear. "South coast scum," he began. "You're not just clumsy, you're stupid and incompetent as well. You couldn't captain a mercenary company, because the only way you can get fighters to follow you is to threaten their families—coward as you are. And you don't have the guts to stay and fight with 'em, when you lead 'em into a mess—" The blows began soon after his words, but he kept on until he passed out once more. "Stupid—cowardly—scum—that's what you are, and furthermore—" * * * This time pain woke him. He was wedged into a space so small that he could move nothing but his head, and that only slightly. His arms had been rebound behind him, tightly; he could not feel his hands at all. His bruised cheek rested on his knees. Everything ached and throbbed, and he had a cramp in one shoulder. With every breath his broken ribs grated and stabbed. He had had bruises and broken ribs often enough before—but not the other pain, a growing fire that gnawed between his thighs, leaving him no doubt about one irreplaceable loss. Perhaps, he thought grimly, I will bleed to death from this. If only I had been able to taunt him longer, he might have killed me at once. He felt contempt for his captor, who could so easily be moved by a rough tongue. But Halverics are not bred to despair or suicide, and his mind returned to his children. If he died, they would avenge him: but he was not dead, not yet. His mind wandered to his own childhood, when Kieri Phelan was his father's squire, and he had seen Kieri's scars. "Don't ever ask," his father had said, "and never complain, Cal, until you've borne the like." He woke, not knowing he had dozed, at the touch of a hand on his leg. A voice—not the soft voice, but one with a northern flavor—whispered nearby. "Are you th' Halveric, are ye?" He froze, afraid to answer. It must be a trap. The hand, hard and horny, slid along his thigh to his buttocks. A whispered curse, then a comment: "Holy Falk, he's been—" Another whisper, silencing the first. He worked his tongue around in his mouth, as the hand found his ankles and a cold thin thing—blade?—slipped under the thongs that bound them. He heard the thongs snap. The blade slid up and cut the thongs at his knees. He tried to whisper, but it came out as a grunt, unintelligible even to him. "Quiet," the voice commanded, itself very soft. "Are you the Halveric?" He nodded, then realized it was dark and managed a shaky yes. "Don't make a noise," the voice said. "We'll pull—don't fight us." A hard hand grasped his feet and pulled them to one side. The wrench of pain that followed almost drew a sound from him, but he clamped his jaws on it. He felt his legs scrape past an edge of some sort, and smelled fresher air, cold air. The hand reached up past his thighs to his body, felt around toward his arms. Again the blade, slicing the bonds at elbow and wrist. His elbows rolled out, catching on the sides of whatever held him with a little thump. Again a muffled curse. The hand reached and pulled first one arm forward, then the other. Something soft bound his forearms loosely together. He leaned now against the side of the container, trying to yield to the hands without making any sound. One set grasped his legs below the knees, and the other reached in and lifted his hips slightly. He choked back a scream at that, and tried to arch his back against the surface behind him. They pulled, and his body eased out, his head sliding down the wall. He tipped his head forward so it would not thump on the floor of the container. He could feel hot blood seeping from reopened wounds. At last, inch by careful inch, the unknown hands drew him free of his prison, and he lay at full length on a flat surface. "Be very quiet," a voice murmured in his ear. "Not out yet. Talk later." Meanwhile the hands were busy, running along his arms and legs feeling for broken bones. His hands began to come to life again, with the throbbing pain of returning circulation. He flexed them, glad to have control over something. "Need cloth," murmured the voice. "Blood trail if we don't." "Here," said the other voice. He was lifted and a pad of cloth wrapped against his back—then he could feel them dragging a tunic over his head. A flask pressed against his lips and he swallowed. While he was dreaming, he thought, he might as well dream numbwine—but it was water, cold and clean. He realized that his mouth was full of some foul taste, blood or vomit, and swallowed again. Very quickly they had him ready to move, with loose trousers drawn up to his waist, and stockings pulled over his feet. "Will hurt," said the voice in his ear. "No sound." A hand lay along his face for a moment, and he nodded. He felt himself slung over a shoulder, but in the pain of that jolting movement, he passed out again. He came to with a hand hard across his mouth. "Quiet," the voice said. He nodded, and the hand released its pressure. It was dark, but now he could see. Yellow blurs in the distance—torches, he thought—and a vague sense of darker nearby shapes looming over him. "Horse lines," murmured the voice. "Got to ride—too far on foot." Cal shuddered at the thought of straddling a horse. "C-can't," he croaked. "Quiet. You must. That or the deathstroke. You've no bones broke but ribs—we'll help you." Cal was shaking now, shaking too hard to help as they urged him up. "By St. Falk, we'll never—" The second voice sounded scared. "We will. The numbwine, Jori." Cal felt a flask against his lips again. This time it was numbwine, strong and bitter with the pain-killing herb. He swallowed twice, three times, before the flask was taken away. "No more," said the voice. "You must be awake for the sentry." In a few moments the pain eased, though the thought of mounting terrified him. The hands pulled at him, lifted. He could just stand, half-supported by one of his rescuers while the other shoved a horse over to him; he smelled the pungent sweaty hide. "Stirrup's low," murmured his supporter. "You can reach it—I'll help. Jori's on the other side." Cal raised his foot, surprised that he could, and slid it into the stirrup he felt. He leaned into the horse as the man behind him shoved him up; his right leg swung to clear the saddle out of habit. He stood, leaning forward on the beast's neck, while Jori fitted his foot into the off stirrup. Then the man on the near side vaulted up behind him, and he heard Jori mount another horse. "Lean on me," said the man behind him. He sank back. The pain was impossible; sweat sprang cold on his whole body—but he did not faint. The horse began to move. "When we reach the sentry lines," the man said in his ear, "you'll have to ride alone—maybe fifty yards—no more. Jori's got a horse for me to go through the lines with." He was fitting a hooded cloak around Cal as he spoke. "We're Vonja militia, remember that. Going back to Vonja. I'm a sergeant; you're just a private. Don't say anything. If they ask your name, say Sim. They won't ask unless their sergeant is there—if they stay bought. At worst we'll see to you. You won't be caught again. Now—when I slide off, sit up straight. Just a few yards, remember?" "Yes—I will." Cal spoke softly. "Who are you?" "Right now, I'm a sergeant of Vonja militia, a turncoat. We'll talk later. Almost there—I've got to change horses before we get to the torches. All right?" Cal nodded. As the man behind him slid from the horse, Cal sagged and almost fell. He managed to pull himself upright, and tried to tuck the cloak snugly around himself. The horses hardly paused before moving on. He could see, against the torches ahead, the third horse now in the lead. A sentry hailed them. He heard the voice ahead, bantering now in a southern accent. He looked forward. It was hard to follow the conversation. Laughter. A face upturned to his, whites of eyes glinting in the light. The horses moved on, into darkness. Cal concentrated on his balance. He dared not look back to see how far they had come. It seemed forever before the voices spoke to him again. "Can you ride alone?" one asked. "We can make better time if you can—we need to get to the river." "I—think—so," Can managed to say. "But not—not trotting—" "No. Of course not." "Should we tie him to the saddle?" asked the other. "If he falls—" "If you think you can't make it," said the first voice, "tell us. Don't fall." "No," said Cal. "I won't fall." He began to believe it might be real. They rode on. Just when he was sure he would faint, strong arms lifted him from the saddle. There were more voices now. Again he thought of a trap, and tried to sit up, but firm hands pressed his shoulders down. "Take it easy, sir," said one of the new voices. "We've got to get you across the river. Just lie still as you can." "But who—" His voice was harsh and unsteady; he swallowed and tried again. "Who are you? Who got me out?" "No real names this side of the river, sir," came the reply. Cal felt the grip of many hands as he was lifted, then laid on a hard surface that seemed to dip and sway. A hand touched his face, gently. "Good luck to you, sir," came the voice he'd heard first. "We hope to see you someday, me and Jori." "But—aren't you coming?" "Nay—we've to get back to Vonja and act our part." "Tir's gut!" exclaimed someone else. "That's a dangerous game—what if you're caught?" "We won't be," said Jori. "We've daggers and the wit to use them. And by Holy Falk and Gird, we'll meet you all in a tavern not too long from now." "I wish," Cal interrupted. "I wish I had something for you—after all this." "You gave us your silence," said the first voice. "That was gift enough, considering. Don't worry, Captain—Jori and me are weasels for cunning." Cal heard the horses moving away. He felt the surface he lay on tip sharply, and the muffled thuds of other bodies settling onto boards. Of course, he thought: river, a boat. He closed his eyes as the boat moved out onto the river. It fetched up on the far back with a bump that jounced him into pain again. He was lifted from the boat to the bank, and given another swallow of numbwine and as much water as he could drink. Then he was carried, on a blanket slung between poles, for a long distance: or long it seemed, when every footfall waked another twinge in his battered body. For the most part he kept his eyes closed, but once when he opened them he noticed the sky above was paling. It must be nearly dawn. The soldiers carrying him were no longer dark blurs against the sky; he could see the shape of their helmets, and the faces beneath. The light grew. He could not distinguish color yet; their tunics were dark, and could have been any dark color. But the helmet shape—the cut—he thought it must be—One of them looked at him. "Nearly there, Captain. You're safe now." "You're—" "The Duke's men, sir. We're nearly back to camp. Sorry it's taken so long." Cal felt a ridiculous desire to laugh. He was hardly likely to complain about how far they'd had to carry him. "My father?" he asked. "Does he know?" The man shook his head. "Don't know, Captain. The Duke will have told him, I'd think, or maybe he's waiting until you come in." Cal let his eyes sag shut. He had no idea how long he'd been in the enemy camp, and he didn't really care to know. Not yet. Enough to know he was out, and safe. As safe in Phelan's camp as in his own. He heard the challenge of sentries, and his escort's reply. A voice he knew, one of the Duke's captains, he thought, said: "Duke's tent." He thought he should open his eyes again, but it was too much trouble. At last all motion ceased. He lay on something soft, and smelled the pungent reek of surgeons' gear. Feet stirred on the floor nearby; something rustled. He struggled to open his eyes. Sunlight bled through the tent walls. The Duke stood by the bed he lay in, staring at the floor. Cal swallowed and tried to speak. The Duke glanced at his face with the first sound. "Cal. You're safe now. Your father will be here soon. My surgeons are ready—" "My lord—I—thank you." The Duke made an impatient gesture. "None needed. I'm glad you're no worse." "It was Siniava's camp, wasn't it?" The Duke nodded, and sat abruptly on a stool beside the bed. Cal rolled his head sideways, and felt his hand lifted and held. A surgeon moved to the bed. Cal swallowed. "Sir—my lord—" "Yes, Cal?" "Please—don't stay. Go—wait for my father." "What? Cal, I've seen wounds before; I won't faint." Cal shook his head. "Please—don't stay—" "Cal—what is it?" He could not answer. The Duke met his eyes in a long silent look, and suddenly he saw the sense of what he could not say looking back at him. He saw tears fill the Duke's eyes, saw them blinked back, saw the rage he had seen last fall return. When the Duke spoke, his voice held nothing of that, nothing but calm. "As you wish, Cal. If you want me, I'll be in the front room." He sighed, and released Cal's hand; sighed again, and stood. "My lord—" "Yes?" "If I could bear anyone—it would be you—" The Duke nodded and withdrew. The surgeons unwrapped the cloak around him and set to work. Numbwine masked the physical pain for the next hour, but not the mental. Now that he was safe, now that he might have thought all was well—he told himself he should be glad of the children he already had, the campaigns he had already fought, the rank he had already won. But what he had lost intruded. How could he command a company, once it was known? He knew too well the ways of rumor to doubt that it would be known, and known widely. He was still thinking this, gloomily, when his father arrived, bursting past the Duke with hardly a word and into the bedchamber. He saw at once that his father knew. The dark eyes were snapping, the beard bristling in all directions. Cal stared back at him. "Well," said his father gruffly. "Thank the gods they took the only thing you don't need to be a commander—or my heir." Cal wondered if he'd heard rightly; he knew his face must show his shock. A grim smile parted his father's beard. "Hadn't thought of it that way, had you? Arms and legs, Cal: brains, eyes, ears—oh, and a strong voice—that's what you need. That you've got. Ask Aesil M'dierra if she ever needed balls to run a company—ask with a mile's head start, and the fastest horse in my stable—you might make it home." He sat down on the stool by the bed. "And thank the gods we didn't give in to young Ali about coming this year. That would have been a real mess." His face softened. "How much numbwine have you had?" "Enough, sir." Cal still felt faintly affronted. "Good. Cal, I'm not ignoring your loss. I know—I do know—what it means. But I know what it doesn't mean. You've got heirs of the body—more than our friend Kieri has. You've got everything else I need. I'm not going to lose a son, Cal, because you lost a few lumps of flesh—even those lumps." "I—I thought you would mind—" "Mind! Of course I mind; I'll serve you that bastard's balls on toast, if you don't get 'em first. But you're a Halveric. My son. My commander and heir. You still have everything else, and it's enough." "Yes, sir." Cal felt better. A little better. "He—he said, sir, that he had agents north of the mountains. He said five sons might not be enough." Aliam Halveric snorted. "You must have been dazed, Cal, to worry about that. Didn't you think I'd take precautions? And better, told your mother about it." He chuckled, and Cal relaxed enough to smile. "I'd like to see anyone sneak past your mother—your wife, now, she's a handful too, but Estil—" Cal thought of his tall mother, still hunting at her age with a bow many men could not bend. "Now. Did the surgeons say how long you'd be down?" "No—not yet." "Hmmph. I need you up, and you need to be up. Did they try a potion?" "No—I don't think so. But—" "Then I'll ask. Cal, think of his face when he hears you're back in command again. He'll get no joy of his doings then! I'll be back." He rose. "Sir?" "What?" "How did you—who told you?" His father grimaced. "Oh, that. Well, that scum sent them. With the badge off your cloak, incidentally. Good gold, that. It's as well he did, Cal: he has nothing to do magicks with, except some blood, and you've spilled blood all over the south. Now rest, and I'll see what the surgeons say." His father left; Cal found himself smiling. From the front room came a murmur of voices. The surgeons would have no chance, Cal realized. Soon enough they came trooping back in, along with his father, a Captain of Falk, and the Duke's mage. "I don't care," his father was saying, "which of you does what, or in what order—but I want him up this day." "But, my lord—" "Impossible. If he—" "I can't be expected to—" "Silence!" That roar was the Duke, just inside the chamber. "Aliam, my surgeons are at your command. My mage has some constraints I don't understand—but, Master Vetrifuge, I expect you'll do what you can. I do suggest, Aliam, that as he got no sleep last night, you might let him rest today." "Kieri, he'll sleep better when he's healed—" "Very well, then. As you will." The Duke withdrew. The surgeons looked at each other and at the mage and cleric. The mage stared at the floor, and the cleric looked at his father. "Get on with it," snapped Aliam Halveric. * * * He woke, hungry and rested, in the long spring evening. His father sat beside him, and the Duke was sprawled in a seat at the end of the bed. They were talking strategy, low-voiced, until the Duke noticed his open eyes, and nodded to Aliam. Cal gave them a smile. "I'm hungry." "Good. They said you would be." The Duke sent his servant for food. "I've got your clothes," said his father. He gestured to them, hanging over a rack. "I brought mail, too—your old set. Come out when you're dressed." "You ought to tell him," said the Duke, "that while he slept the day away, we moved camp." He grinned at Cal. "We loaded you in one of Vladi's wagons, and you didn't even murmur. The teamster said you didn't rouse all day. We'd begun to wonder just how much numbwine you'd had." He turned and went through the curtain into the front room. "Come on," said his father. "Don't take forever." And he, too, left Cal to stand and dress alone.   Back | NextFramed